


The Final Tally

by pollybywater



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-27
Updated: 2003-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollybywater/pseuds/pollybywater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan realizes what's missing in his life, or rather, who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Tally

**Author's Note:**

> As you may have guessed from the title, spoilers for 'Endgame' feature prominently, because, let's face it, that movie needs a better ending.

Following the death of Connor MacLeod, there were days when Duncan replayed each moment of that dreadful time. He often heard Connor's voice in his head, but as the months passed into years, he began to remember the things he'd said to Connor as much as what Connor had said to him.

"Connor, with time, anything can be forgiven. You taught me that," he'd said, and Connor had given him an odd look then asked, "Did I?"

That little exchange had slipped under Duncan's skin at the time, only to erupt at unforeseen times like a bad rash, letting him think of nothing else while he came to terms with having taken Connor's head and everything that had happened after that.

As his heart healed, he often wished he'd pinned his elusive kinsman down. Asked Connor "Didn't you?" or better yet, "If not you, who?"

He had a feeling he knew who Connor would have named. After all, Connor had to have known who'd dropped Duncan off at the graveyard where they'd met that day. To whom had he automatically gone when he needed information?

And who, merely by living, had actually taught Duncan the art of forgiveness of self?

If he could only find Methos and convince his friend that he'd really, finally *learned* that lesson, and was ready for the next one. The one that haunted his nights and awakened him from dreams with sticky sheets and an itch... an itch, he now knew, that he'd felt for *years* without recognizing it for what it was. An itch he'd sublimated and redirected and just plain avoided acknowledging, until his subconscious mind forced him to admit the truth of it.

He really needed to find Methos.

He really needed Methos.

***

"Joe, d'ye know where he is or not?"

Joe Dawson looked into his friend's exasperated face and shoved his hand through his hair. That normally almost nonexistent Scottish accent was particularly thick, a sign which Joe well recognized. MacLeod was reaching the limits of his usually formidable patience, and it was time for the universe to start bending to his will.

Not like the flash in those dark eyes hadn't been Joe's first clue.

"Christ, Mac, you oughta know there's no watcher on Adam!"

"That's noh answer!"

To his credit, Joe resisted the impulse to tell Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod that he sounded like a whiny six year old. Besides, Mac was right, it *wasn't* an answer. While it was true that Methos dodged watchers with a skill that bordered on the supernatural, and equally true that Joe himself was no longer an active watcher, it just so happened that Joe *did* know where the old man was- in fact, Adam had sent him an e-mail that very morning. Adam faithfully kept Joe posted on his whereabouts, knowing his mortal friend tended to worry about him otherwise. Joe also knew that Adam only did that because he naturally assumed that Joe wouldn't give MacLeod his current location and alias.

Remembering the poorly hidden pain in Adam's eyes when Joe told him Mac and Kate were together, Joe decided that MacLeod had better have a damned good reason for asking now.

"Mac, why do you want to know? For that matter, why aren't you in Paris with Kate?" He asked irritably, aimlessly swiping at the top of the bar and wishing he'd ditched Seacouver for Paris himself. He might have avoided this, then. Hell, for that matter, he was pretty much retired; he could have gone to fucking Florida. Sun, scantily dressed babes, beer on the beach.

Damn.

Duncan ducked his head and wished he could duck Joe's question. He didn't like to think about how stupid he'd been to try again with Kate, especially after what had happened with Jacob Kell. Friend though Joe Dawson was, Duncan couldn't tell Joe what Kate's true motives for pursuing their brief reconciliation had been- and no way in hell could he admit why he'd kicked her narrow arse out.

There was only one man in the world to whom Duncan could imagine telling that story, actually. Preferably over mass quantities of eighteen-year-old Glenmorangie. Better yet, sprawled together in a big bed somewhere, so he could prove he knew *what* he needed to the *one* he needed.

Provided Kate hadn't completely emasculated him. She'd certainly tried.

He let out a huge sigh, widened his eyes, and gave Joe his best puppy-dog-pleading stare.

"I just need ta talk ta him, Joe."

Joe raised one eyebrow, squinted the opposite eye, and gave MacLeod his best don't-fuck-with-me glare.

And Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod flinched. He couldn't help it.

"Kate and I haven't been together for months. I dumped her," he admitted roughly, hoping it would make a difference if Joe knew that he wasn't looking for Methos as some kind of consolation prize.

Actually, it did make a difference. Joe sighed, wondered briefly if Methos would forgive him before he died, and caved.

"He's in Salt Lake City, teaching the history of philosophy at the University of Utah, using the name Matthew Howell." Joe let out another huge sigh. "I'd say, you didn't hear this from me, but the minute you show up he's going to know I told you, and he'll make me regret it," he muttered under his breath.

"You won't regret it, Joe," Duncan promised steadily, and Joe reached across the bar and grabbed his wrist.

"Make sure *he* doesn't regret it, Mac."

If Joe truly believed that Methos wouldn't want to see him, Joe would *never* have admitted knowing where Methos was, Duncan realized with relief. He looked into his friend's worried eyes and made a decision.

"He and I have wasted enough time on regrets, Joe. Time we could have spent together. We've danced around each other long enough. No more," he declared, and was rewarded with the dumbfounded expression on Dawson's face.

"You don't mean-"

"Aye, that I do. Wish me luck?"

"Oh, yeah," Joe said fervently, then laughed with genuine pleasure. It seemed he'd retired from actively 'watching' MacLeod too soon. Speaking of which...

"You'll have to give your watcher the slip or Adam-"

"Don't worry. I'll not risk a hair on the old man's head."

"In that case, good luck, MacLeod." Joe grinned. "You're gonna need it."

"That I know, Joe. That I know."

***

Salt Lake City. Duncan had been there before, of course, long ago. There had been a few muddy roads and clapboard buildings, squeezed in between snow-capped mountain ranges and a wide inland sea; a view that hadn't lost any of its impact, then or now, when a remarkably clean and modern city sprawled over that same ground.

It wasn't difficult to find the university. Navigating his way around the campus proved to be a bit harder. He laughed when he found the philosophy department on *Central* avenue- it hadn't seemed very central to *him*. For such a large university there seemed to be a paucity of students, and it wasn't until he'd stopped one blushing coed and asked that he learned it was practically the end of term, and very few classes were still in session... which explained the absence of immortal buzz, he guessed, cursing himself.

He still managed to locate the office of Doctor Howell, where a pleasant young man informed him that the professor had given finals early and was out of town. Duncan used his puppy dog eyes again. The young man was less resistant than Joe. Although he quite properly refused to give out Doctor Howell's home address, he did part with a phone number as well as gifting Duncan with the rather astounding news that the professor had mentioned camping at the Little Sahara recreation area two hours south of town. Duncan wasn't sure how he'd kept his eyeballs from rolling at the notion of Methos voluntarily *camping*, but he politely thanked the young man and made his way back to his vehicle.

He debated on getting a hotel room and just waiting for Methos to return his call, but he didn't want to take the chance that Methos would find a way to dodge him. Duncan couldn't deny his need to see Methos as soon as possible. When he'd thought it through, thought about all the times Methos had been there for him, all the ways Methos had tried to protect, defend, and teach him, Duncan knew Methos felt more for him than he'd been prepared to notice, then. And without being vain, at least, not *too* much so, Duncan doubted Methos had stopped feeling that way. Why else would the old man have avoided him for years, otherwise?

Hopeful that he wasn't indulging in wishful thinking, Duncan stopped in at a sporting goods store and kitted himself out for a week's worth of roughing it, then consulted a map and took off. Much later, once he'd left the highway for a narrow little two lane road, he forced himself not to fret over whether he'd truly be welcomed and concentrated on the scenery, instead.

The countryside grabbed his eyes; sparse, vast and subtly beautiful. He'd been so many years jetting between cities like Paris, New York, London, and Seacouver that he'd forgotten there were such stretches of under-populated land. He saw very little traffic on the road, and even less evidence of habitation. The late-afternoon solitude was soothing, and Duncan wondered if that's why Methos came out here, to remember that the things made by human hands might be transient, but the land itself was as eternal as he was.

As eternal as *they* were, if Duncan had anything to say about it.

The Little Sahara recreation area was amazing. Duncan was hard put to believe that a mere two hour drive could take him from mountains and tall trees to a land of pure desert. Scrubby creosote bushes and knotty junipers dotted huge sandy washes, beyond which stretched mile after mile of high rolling dunes. Duncan had never seen anything quite like it in the United States. The nearest settlement was twenty miles away at a crossroads named Jericho Junction, and the entire area did look like it had been directly transplanted from some arid Middle Eastern desert.

He stopped at the ranger station to check in and pay his park fees, learning from the surprisingly cheerful officer on duty that 'yes, Doctor Howell is camping here, all the way at the end of the road, sir, you can't miss him'.

Driving cautiously down a sandy, rutted path that didn't exactly deserve the name 'road' made for an adventure all by itself, and Duncan had to congratulate himself for having the foresight to rent an SUV instead of the luxury sedan he'd originally considered.

A few miles further brought him that efferent sense of presence, familiar and pure. Duncan felt something inside himself relax. Methos *was* here, and surely finding the old man was half the battle.

Surely.

He drove around the last bend and started laughing. Methos was camping, all right, in a thirty-foot fifth-wheel style travel trailer. He should have known.

He pulled up and parked next to a large black Range Rover, exiting his SUV as Methos opened the trailer door and stood watching him. Duncan couldn't help smiling. The old man looked wonderful, in a sweatshirt and worn jeans that accentuated those long lean legs; his hair a bit shaggy and longer than Duncan's own, for a change. Best of all, Methos wore an answering smile.

Duncan hadn't fully realized how much he'd missed Methos until he saw that smile.

"Well, now. What brings a four-hundred year old man to my trailer door?" Methos asked playfully, stepping down out of the RV. He paused to rummage in a nearby ice chest then casually sauntered towards Duncan, handing him a beer... as if they'd only been parted for a matter of days instead of the years since their last meeting.

"I heard you were camping. I had to see it with my own two eyes," Duncan teased back, accepting the beer with the faintest brush of fingers. If he hadn't been paying close attention, he wouldn't have heard Methos' breath hitch ever so slightly. The tiny sound made his heart leap.

So far so good. Methos did seem happy to see him, despite Joe's gloomy prediction, and Methos wasn't unaffected by his physical presence. Hope had Duncan smiling again, and he didn't overlook the way Methos blinked in response, as if the sun was in his eyes despite the fact that it was setting over the dunes.

Then Methos shuttered his expression with a quick skill that made Duncan remember the man had been hiding who he was for thousands of years.

"Why *are* you here, MacLeod?"

Start as you mean to go on, Duncan, he thought a bit wildly, and took another step into Methos' personal space.

"I missed you. I needed to see you."

Methos looked startled for about one-tenth of a second, then he let out an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh and motioned for Duncan to follow him.

"As luck would have it, MacLeod, I brought plenty of beer."

And the lucky thing, Duncan thought, was that Methos didn't see the look on his face at that offhand invitation. He followed Methos into the trailer and tried to moderate his wide smile.

***

The trailer was unexpectedly comfortable, reminding Duncan in many ways of the barge. More lavishly furnished than he'd anticipated, yet with that same 'a place for everything and everything in its place' atmosphere that went along with any foundationless home. He sat on a lush leather sofa while Methos poured himself into a chair, and they did nothing more than look at each other for several long minutes before Duncan finally found his tongue.

"Tell me about Matthew Howell."

Methos shrugged, and took a sip of his beer.

"Not much to tell. Matthew Howell completed his master's at Swansea in Wales, did his doctoral studies and defended his dissertation at Edinburgh-"

"Did you really spend time in Scotland?" Duncan interrupted out of surprise, rewarded when the corner of Methos' mouth twisted into a wry grin.

"I did. I really wrote the dissertation, too. 'Freedom vs. Determinism, a Perspective on the History of Philosophy'." Methos took a breath and gave Duncan a level look. "I paid my respects to Connor while I was there."

Duncan nodded.

"I've visited a time or two, myself."

"It's a lovely spot," Methos said, surprising Duncan all over again.

"Why are you here?" He asked curiously, and watched his friend's mouth twitch.

"Never ask that question of a philosopher, MacLeod."

Duncan rolled his eyes, and watched as Methos smiled then visibly relented.

"I like Utah. It has a great deal of variety. As for why I'm *here* specifically, you'll have to wait and see in the morning- that is, if you're staying?"

"If I'm welcome."

"Of course, Mac. Mi campista es su campista," Methos said grandly, and Duncan laughed.

"I've a tent-"

"No need. The sofa folds out into a bed."

And that quickly, it seemed, things were back to whatever had always passed for normal between them. The rest of the evening went by in a companionable mixture of beer and idle conversation about Joe, Amanda, the de Valicourts, and other mutual acquaintances; Methos very carefully steering them away from anything personal, and Duncan allowing it.

After all, Rome wasn't built in a day, and Duncan could be a very patient man when he needed to be.

***

Five years. Five thousand years. There was a certain symmetry in repeating the numbers to himself, Methos thought, sprawled out on his queen-sized mattress and trying not to wonder how MacLeod was doing with the sofa bed.

Trying not to wonder how MacLeod *looked* lying on the sofa bed.

Five years. He hadn't seen MacLeod in five years. Five thousand years. He was five thousand years old.

One would think he'd have developed a little self-control by now, but MacLeod had surprised him; first, by simply showing up in the middle of nowhere to see him, after five years... and second, by looking into his eyes with that earnest 'trust-me' face and saying 'I missed you. I needed to see you'.

Had he ever expected to hear something like that from Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?

Not in five thousand years, he thought, and silently laughed at himself.

Still, he had to accept it as the truth, because MacLeod had said it, and MacLeod didn't lie... which sounded rather childish when he thought about it like that. Childish, or at best, naive... but Methos knew it for a fact of life, like the sun rising in the east. As far as he knew, MacLeod had never told him a deliberate lie. MacLeod made mistakes, certainly. Repeated information that turned out to be incorrect, or said something out of anger that didn't necessarily reflect the reality of the situation, but never spoke from dishonesty or malice.

Unlike Methos himself.

He sighed and turned over in the bed. A custom made mattress with eight-hundred thread count imported Egyptian sheets ought to be more conducive to sleep.

Really, it should.

He finally began to drift off, his last conscious thoughts about the way MacLeod had looked at him... smiled at him.

He'd hoped for years to see that look directed at him, but didn't know if he dared believe it.

But MacLeod didn't lie.

***

When Methos woke him at just after five the following morning, Duncan was sorely tempted to throw his host out the trailer door.

"Damn it, man, the sun's not even up yet!"

"Come on, Highlander. You wanted to know."

He stumbled out of bed and into the lavatory, then came back out to dress himself, only half-aware of the way Methos watched him. Accepting a travel mug of hot coffee less than graciously, he then followed Methos outside.

"Shit, it's cold!"

"But it's a dry cold," Methos protested solemnly, handing him a thick blanket that Duncan was quick to wrap around his shoulders. Methos led him into the dunes, and slogging through the sand warmed him soon enough. They didn't go far before coming to a spot Methos had apparently pre-arranged, where more blankets waited, one spread out over the sand with a thermos bottle at hand. Methos urged him to sit, which he did, huddled under his cover and toasting his fingers on his mug. The fine sand under the blanket instantly contoured to fit the curves of his ass, and he was more comfortable than he'd expected, despite the chill.

"Methos-"

"Shh. Listen, MacLeod."

So he did. It took a little while, but he began to understand when the silence was so loud his ears started ringing. For over an hour he sat and heard nothing but the sounds of his own heartbeat and breathing. Methos was so quiet he might as well have been nonexistent, and Duncan watched him as the sun broke over the distant mountains, admiring the way his pale skin pinkened with the light.

Eventually, noises intruded; birds, bugs, and finally, an engine on a far-away jet.

"Do you know how difficult it is to find a place in this country where one can spend a significant amount of time without hearing any man-made noises? Two more weeks and this place will be overrun with four-wheelers. Statistically, noise pollution-"

"Methos."

As if he'd been doing it for years, Duncan reached out and pulled his friend into his arms, closing his mouth over those mobile lips and halting the exasperatingly prosaic words that issued forth. Methos froze for a terrifying instant then virtually melted against him, mouth opening under Duncan's with an almost helpless moan.

Methos tasted like coffee and need, not exotic at all, not different as Duncan had half-expected, but like everything he wanted for this moment and for the rest of their lives. Aroused before he even knew it, he sank into a kiss that was becoming hot, wet, and surprisingly messy considering how many centuries of experience he and Methos had between them. The relief he felt when he realized he was hard made him weak. Made him fall back onto the blanket, made him drag Methos down with him; until they were plastered together, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, and groin to groin.

Methos groaned something against his lips that might have been his name, but when Duncan laid his hands on Methos' ass and pulled, Methos jerked his head back and ended their kiss. Wild dark eyes stared down at him with obvious shock, but before Methos could speak whatever protest was on his mind, Duncan rolled them over and held Methos down, covering the leaner body with his own.

Methos was hard, too. There was no mistaking it.

"You're not to ask me what the hell I'm doing, or say this is a bad idea, MacLeod, or tell me I've lost my mind. I don't want to hear it. I want you to hear *me*. This isn't coming out of nowhere. I told you the truth yesterday. I missed you. I needed to see you. There's a hole in my life when you're gone. I know it took me a while to figure that out, and I hope you'll forgive me for it. I hope you'll forgive me every time I screw up, and most of all, I hope you'll let me love you the way I do in my dreams."

Methos searched his face; an inexorable focus that peered right through him, seeking the truth of his words. Duncan stared back fearlessly. He hadn't said one word he didn't mean or wouldn't say again, which meant he saw the moment Methos believed him- saw the dawn rise in those variable hazel eyes as they filled with warmth.

"You dream about me, Duncan?"

That voice was breathy and low, but it was Methos using his given name that sent a hot bolt of lust surging through him. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times Methos had called him 'Duncan', and now that he'd heard it, he knew he wanted to hear it again and again, in all sorts of ways. Whispered in the dark, growled in irritation, screamed at the height of passion- it could well become his life's ambition, Duncan mused, unable to resist the temptation to bend down for another brief taste of Methos.

"I do dream about you," he said, licking over a supple lower lip. "Day and night." Methos smiled against his mouth, and Duncan pulled back just far enough to see his friend's sparkling eyes. "You like hearing that," he accused gently, and gasped with surprise when Methos rolled them back over.

"I've a doctorate, you know. In certain circles, that indicates that I'm a very smart man." Methos gave a little wiggle that startled a groan out of Duncan's throat. "I'm far too smart not to appreciate the fact that you dream about me."

"Duncan," Duncan added for him, smiling up into that joyful face, and grateful to be the one who put that expression there.

"Duncan," Methos repeated agreeably, then kissed him. As self-control became a memory, Duncan realized that five thousand years of experience actually did make one hell of a difference. When he next grasped a coherent thought, he found himself once again on top of Methos, the two of them writhing against each other, all hands and mouths and heat and nothing like sanity. He grabbed Methos' hands and pulled them up, which essentially pinned them both, and waited for the dazzle to subside in Methos' eyes.

It took a minute, and Duncan mourned when all that lovely wanton need was replaced by a rather wary curiosity. He explained himself quickly, fearing Methos would assume he'd had second thoughts.

"I want you naked on a bed. I want to be naked with you, not freezing my arse off or worrying about sand scouring yours. I want to fall asleep in your arms after you fuck me through the mattress. As a matter of fact, I'd like to stay in bed all day."

"I hardly think one day will be long enough," Methos said dryly, his tone contradicted by another bright grin. Duncan stood with a groan, pulling Methos up with him, and grasped his friend by the shoulders, locking their gazes.

"Today, tomorrow, and all the days after, until we look around and can't remember what it was to be alone."

"That- that sounds like you're talking about a long-term commitment." Methos frowned at him, silky eyebrows drawn down. "You're that certain of me?" His tone was almost insulted, and Duncan knew to watch his step.

"Not certain. Hopeful. Hopeful that all the signs I missed at the time meant what I want them to mean," Duncan offered hesitantly, trying to put that hope in his eyes and his voice. "I've had time to think about your behavior around me, Methos, and it seemed to me there was more to it than simple friendship."

Methos tilted his head and offered a wry smile.

"You've never been simple, Duncan MacLeod, and neither have I."

"This can be," Duncan swore, cupping Methos' face in his hands and leaning in for a tender, almost chaste kiss. "If we don't get in our own way, this can be the simplest thing we've ever done."

"It's been hard, staying away from you," Methos admitted, and Duncan sighed, relieved that Methos had in fact understood what he'd meant.

"Because the pull is so strong," he said quietly, suiting actions to words and drawing Methos into his arms, that lean, hard body tight against his own. "I've felt it, too. Never doubt that." He shivered as Methos tenderly kissed the side of his neck, humid breath teasing sensitive skin.

He was so hard he hurt.

"Methos..."

"I know. Not here. Sand in bad places. Bed. Now?"

***

Not only had he been reduced to monosyllables, he sounded like he was begging, Methos realized with no little irritation. Such was the case whenever he dealt with this highland child. Duncan MacLeod addled his brain, short-circuited his better judgment, illuminated his soul and electrified his body. It had always been so, but once upon a time Methos had been able to hide it better. Difficult to do now, with his face buried in the crook of Mac's throat, filling his nose with Mac's sweet scent and delicious warmth.

In truth, he'd bend over for MacLeod right here, and sand be damned.

Just as well one of them was thinking, although Methos worried that if Mac actually gave clear thought to any of this he'd come to his senses and nothing would happen. Again. He swallowed a sigh and made no protest as Mac grabbed his hand and virtually dragged him in the direction of the trailer, choosing instead to look around him at the ocean of sand under the bowl of the sky.

He'd loved this place. It soothed him- soothed Death, in its long silences and essential beauty. He knew he'd probably never come here again, no matter how things worked out with MacLeod. MacLeod wasn't meant for spaces dry and empty, and once MacLeod left him, he wouldn't be able to bear the memories embedded in the dust.

Pushing that aside- he'd mastered living in the moment long ago –he followed MacLeod down the last dune and over the flat ground to the trailer. MacLeod hesitated at the door, and Methos ruthlessly shoved down a knife-sharp pang of regret.

Not already. Not so soon. Not yet.

"Not yet what?" MacLeod asked, eyes wide and- hurt? "Do you not want this?" Want *me* is what Methos heard, even as he cursed himself for slipping and speaking out loud.

"No! That's not- Yes! Damn it, MacLeod, of course I want you. I thought- I thought you-"

"You thought I changed my mind," MacLeod interrupted his adolescent stammering, far too much relieved comprehension on that gorgeous face for Methos' comfort. "Oh, Methos, love, ha' yew no faith in me?"

"I- What?" He couldn't possibly have heard right, and he blinked at MacLeod, thunderstruck.

Duncan fought not to smile. Total shock was a good look on Methos, and one he'd be willing to bet had been seldom seen over the millennia.

"Come here, old man," he ordered, and pulled Methos inside, not pausing until they stood beside the bed. The room seemed very dim after the harsh morning light, and Duncan set about undressing Methos by feel as his eyesight adjusted, knowing Methos was similarly blinded. Methos was passive under his hands, as if still stunned, and Duncan wasted no time in pulling off his own clothes. He then pushed Methos down onto the mattress and straddled those long ivory thighs, quickly grabbing hands before they could begin wandering.

"I stopped at the door because I had this ridiculous temptation to carry you over the threshold," he confided, shifting forward until their hard cocks rubbed together. Methos gave an outright moan and shuddered beneath him, apparently as enslaved to the sensations of their bodies as Duncan himself was. He lowered his body to cover Methos, and couldn't have said from which of them the resultant whimper came. Maybe from both. Strong arms pulled Duncan even closer and he slipped his own arms under Methos' shoulders, filling his hands with silky hair, then rubbed their faces together like a cat marking scent.

"Duncan," Methos whispered helplessly, too aware of everything to name exactly what it was he was feeling... things he wasn't sure he'd ever felt. Sheltered, protected, safe- and he hadn't even known he'd *wanted* those things. Cherished, adored, and loved; those, too, were there, anchored by an underlying passion that strained for release, threatening a level of intensity that Methos wasn't certain he could handle and remain sane.

Above it all was the fact that this was *Duncan MacLeod* lying with him, in his arms, silently declaring emotions that Methos had been convinced would never be directed towards *him*.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, love," MacLeod- *Duncan* said, and took his mouth in a kiss of such overwhelming sweetness that Methos felt himself coming apart, will blown to dust. Like the dunes by the winds; not destroyed, but completely deconstructed, then reformed. Remade. Reborn. His body knew what it needed, arching ecstatically into Duncan's, skin to skin and desperate to soak up as much feeling as possible. There was so much *to* feel, from the way their legs entwined to the way Duncan's hands felt, tangled almost painfully in his hair. In between... in between was Duncan's mouth on his, sucking and licking his lips and tongue. Duncan's chest, sweat slick and firm and incredibly warm. Duncan's back, satin-smooth under his palms. Duncan's cock, aligned with his, each thrust of hips sending a fresh shock of pleasure up his spine. All so good that Methos wanted to beg and scream and weep. Something. Anything.

"Please," he gasped against those lush lips. "Duncan, *please*."

Oh, that was lovely to hear. Duncan thought he could come just from the sound of that voice pleading in broken whispers. Methos trembled beneath him, plainly wracked with need and beautiful with it... pale skin flushed and damp, lips swollen and ripe, eyes dark with pupils passion blown. Responsive, needy, and emotionally bare; not the Methos he'd anticipated- *dreamed* about, but so much more.

So much better.

He freed his fingers from Methos' hair and reached between their bodies to take them in one hand, fisting their hard hot flesh together. Methos cried out a string of words in no language Duncan had ever heard, the tension in his voice making very clear that he was close.

Just where Duncan wanted him, on the edge of bliss. He moved his mouth to Methos' ear and murmured breathily, his hand working them faster, too near losing his own control.

"Let go, old man. I love you. I want to see you, see it happen for you. Come on, love. Come for me."

And Methos couldn't refuse Duncan MacLeod. He climaxed explosively, that voice- *those words* pushing him into a spine-searing release. He was vaguely aware of the noise he was making, but too far gone in his pleasure to care, particularly when Duncan shuddered against him and loosed his own harsh groan, adding to the wet heat spreading between them.

He clung to Duncan as they shivered through the aftershocks, and didn't realize he was whispering until Duncan drew back and looked into his eyes.

"If you're saying 'God, that was amazing' and 'I didn't know a little frottage and masturbation could feel that good' or 'When we fuck it's going to kill us both', then I agree," Duncan said with a rather smug grin before he raised his hand to his lips, plainly savoring their combined flavors. Methos reviewed his own words and found himself laughing before he knew it, suddenly so purely happy that he felt almost giddy. He threw his arms around Duncan's neck and pulled their mouths together for a brief taste of that mutual joy.

"All true, but not the literal translation." Methos rolled them abruptly, so he could look down at Duncan's shining face, and drew on every bit of courage he had. "I said I love you. I've loved you so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you, and I love you more than my own life."

Duncan blinked against the sudden stinging in his eyes.

"Part of me has always known. Depended on it, was grateful for it, and loved you for it. Thank you for not giving up- giving me time to get my head straight."

Methos snickered at that, and Duncan shook his head, unable to repress an undignified giggle.

"That was a poor choice of words," he admitted, adoring the way Methos looked; relaxed, amused, and all of twenty-five, at the most. He shifted Methos over to his side and urged that silky dark head onto his shoulder, beyond pleased when Methos willingly cuddled.

"We'll be stuck together," Methos warned. Duncan kissed his hair.

"Good," he said complacently as Methos smiled against his skin. He made no protest, though, when Methos used the edge of the sheet to wipe them dry.

They lay together silently for a while, exchanging occasional unhurried kisses and caresses, until apropos of nothing, Methos spoke.

"Duncan, what happened with Kate, or Faith, or whatever she's calling herself now?"

Catty much? Duncan wondered, knowing that Methos knew perfectly well. He hid a smile of his own at that studiedly casual tone, cautiously keeping his face out of Methos' line of sight. To his great relief, the subject of Kate no longer caused him any pain, and he realized he could easily tell his lover the story, just as he'd hoped.

"She came to my hotel room just before Connor's death," he began as Methos listened intently. "She- we slept together. I didn't understand why, at the time, because she was still so angry. Maybe if I hadn't been thinking with my dick I would have realized sooner-"

Duncan cut himself off and shrugged. Methos squirmed back into a comfortable position and patted his chest.

"You don't have to tell me."

"I know. I want to. I just hate to admit how stupid I was."

"Hmm. Duncan MacLeod stupid over a woman. Shocking," Methos drawled with such wonderfully familiar sarcasm that Duncan couldn't even take offense at the words. He twirled a lock of Methos' soft hair around his fingers and gave it a sharp tug anyway. No reason for the old man to think he was a complete pushover.

Not in that way, at least.

"Hush, you. It needs telling."

Methos could hear the truth of that in Duncan's voice. He could honestly say he didn't want to know what had been so bad as to drive Duncan MacLeod into his bed, having learned long ago not to question fortune, but if Duncan felt so strongly about it, he would listen.

And hope that it wouldn't hurt too much.

Duncan took Methos' silence for the acquiescence that it was, and went on.

"Once I'd seen to it that Connor was laid to rest, I looked for her. I'd thought Kell killed her until I had his quickening. When I found her, I felt I owed it to her to try-" Duncan cut himself off with a sigh. Parts of this were harder to explain than others. "She was so different, Methos, before her first death, and I was responsible."

Methos shifted their positions, moving to cradle Duncan in his arms, and a startled Duncan quickly realized how very nice it was to be the one who was held and comforted. In his four centuries, it had almost always been the other way around.

"I've read your chronicles, Duncan," Methos said, and Duncan relaxed into that protective embrace. As he ordered his thoughts, Duncan mused on the fact that Methos offered what Methos longed for most; simple acceptance of past actions.

Duncan would not allow himself to forget that ever again.

"And you know me, Methos, so you'll understand why it took months for me to notice that she was using me."

"It's not a crime to expect the best from people," Methos protested gently, disliking Duncan's self-directed bitterness. He may have often wished that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would learn to be a bit less... naive, but he never would have wished pain with the lesson.

"But I should have been prepared for the worst, considering who was involved." Duncan turned further into Methos' arms, until he was virtually whispering into the side of Methos' warm throat. "Kate slept with me because Jacob Kell wouldn't fuck her. She did it before Kell's death so she'd have something to taunt him with, and after, because the closest she could get to having him was having me."

"Oh, Duncan."

Methos closed his eyes and squashed the cold rage that iced along his spine, not wanting to alarm his lover. There would be better times to entertain the idea of flaying Kate alive then pitching her into the nearest ocean as shark chum. Her behavior warranted it, in Methos' opinion. It wasn't unheard of following a challenge for another immortal to look to the victor for the loser's quickening. More than a few challenges started that way, actually. What Duncan was describing was a bit more twisted than that, though, and the kind of thing Methos knew would have hurt Duncan deeply.

"How did you find out?"

"The usual way. She called out his name while we were in bed." Duncan managed a short laugh. "The rest of it came out during the argument afterwards."

Methos' only response was to tighten his grip on Duncan, one hand pushing the hair off the broad forehead so he could drop a kiss on it. In truth, he didn't know what to say that wouldn't betray his strong urge to see Duncan's former lover dead. Permanently.

Duncan twisted about so he could meet Methos' gaze, wanting to tell the rest of it so they could put it behind them once and for all.

"I kicked her out, and spent the next six months feeling so dirty that I couldn't even take pleasure in my own hand... then I started dreaming of you, Methos. I'd wake to my wet sheets with a smile on my face... and when I let myself admit it, I knew I'd had those dreams before. From the first day I saw you. It was always you, behind everyone else."

"Oh, Duncan," Methos said again, in a very different tone this time, and Duncan smiled as he felt them harden against each other's skin.

"You believe me now, old man?" He asked, staring into those green-gold eyes, one hand over Methos' heart. "You believe me here?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," Methos breathed, just before he rolled Duncan to his back and proceeded to make dreams into reality.

***

Washed, dressed, and fed- and hadn't that been an experience, watching Methos in jeans and sweatshirt expertly searing steaks over a grill like a tailgater at a Seahawks game –the question of what they'd do now loomed as large as the setting sun. Duncan was determined to surprise his lover one more time.

"D'ye live in this thing year round, then," he began, waving a hand at the travel trailer.

Methos looked up from his camp chair to where Duncan sat perched on the edge of the picnic table. The lowering sun cast the younger immortal in twilight shades of plums and pinks, picking out the fine curves of bone and flesh. Beautiful, Methos thought, not for the first time.

"I have a perfectly adequate house in Salt Lake," he replied before he could forget what Duncan had asked him.

"Not on the same scale as your house in London, I suppose," Duncan said next. Methos tilted his head to one side, not sure where this was going but more than a little suspicious.

"Large enough."

"Ah. Large enough for my stuff? And room for Joe when he visits, of course," Duncan added thoughtfully, hiding his amusement at the baffled expression on Methos' face.

"Your stuff."

"Aye, I've a few things I'd like to take out of storage." Duncan kept his lips from twitching by main force of will. "Along with my clothes, that is. How's your house for closet space?"

"*Closet* space! MacLeod, what are you-"

"It's *Duncan*, remember?" He slid off the table and knelt between Methos' legs, catching those long fingered hands in his own. "I'm asking you to share your house with me. Make a home with me, love."

Methos felt the words like a hard blow to the head, sharp, stunning, and mind-altering. Bewildered, he opened his mouth to the first words that fell out.

"Here? You don't want to go back to Seacouver, or Paris, or New York-"

"Here. Haven't you followed me to my places long enough? 'Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge'."

Methos took a huge, shuddering breath, hardly able to cope with having his deepest, most buried dreams excavated in such spectacular fashion. He looked into Duncan's darkening eyes, and damned his own for watering.

There was really only one thing he could say.

"Yes, Duncan."

Duncan rested his head in Methos' lap, luxuriated in being petted, and thought of Connor. People *did* change, he *had* learned that.

And he thanked God for it.

  
The End

27 July 03


End file.
